


no body

by madanach



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 15:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15004313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madanach/pseuds/madanach
Summary: There are things you get away with when you’re Lio Messi.Post 3-0 loss to Croatia.





	no body

Lio cuts a swathe through the frantic pitch, through the chilly hallways, through the dressing room. He doesn’t stay to hear Sampaoli’s poor excuse for a post-match talk — he strips and stands under a shower that creeps past scalding for twenty seconds of blank breathing, feeling the water collect under his nose and pool past his bottom lip, hoping it drowns him. Then he grabs a towel and walks past the baleful eyes of his teammates, past the fury in Sampaoli’s voice when he says “Going to join us, Lio?”

Lio pulls on clothes that stick wet to his body and pushes his aching feet back into his boots, sockless. He looks at a point a few inches shy of Sampaoli’s eyes, shakes his head, and leaves.

There are things you get away with when you’re Lio Messi. Losing 3-0 to Croatia is not one of them.

In the hallway, the staff and the medical team are chattering like rodents. Their conversations die when they see Lio. He keeps his head down.

A do-gooder voice somewhere in his temporal lobe says, _You’re in trouble, baby, time to save face._ Another says to go cry, scream, rage in front of his traitorous teammates, his hack manager, their expensive, useless assistants, all the clothes and hope scattered on the floor. A third chants _your fault your fault your fault_ and a fourth yearns with all the power of its incorporeality to be alone in a dark, empty room, maybe forever.

Lio finds himself in a corridor he doesn’t recognize and jolts to a stop. Confused, excited stadium personnel stare at him. He makes a decision and turns left, pushes into a door that he thinks, for a heartstopping moment, is locked. Lionel Messi, the hope of Argentina, blocked by Croatia, blocked by a door.

The stubborn latch comes open when he shoves. Lio waits until it swings shut behind him and then dry heaves onto the linoleum. There’s nothing in his gut to throw up — he gathers the acid on his tongue and spits it into the gathering dust in the corner.

It doesn’t help the nausea. Sick warmth pulses through Lio’s body, a chill on its heels. He wants to get to his feet, can’t quite manage it. The tile presses red ovals into his knees.

Far in the background, somewhere in the hollow winding labyrinth of the stadium at Nizhny Novgorod, someone calls his name.

Lio forces himself up. He’s in what must be a service hallway, thin and off-white and badly kept. At this point, he couldn’t find his way back to the locker room if he wanted to. He walks forward just to keep walking.

When he’s halfway down the hall, someone kicks at the bad latch, then cusses. Lio speeds up. The endless empty walls force him to take a right, so he does. Kun calls again, echoing: “Lio!”

Lio speeds up, still a reasonable pace, telling himself he’s not running.

Kun catches him by fisting the back of his shirt, yanking him backward with enough force that Lio almost falls. Lio snaps “No,” pulls out of his grip and then sags back into an alcove of the uneven wall, looks to the side as Kun stares him down.

“Lio,” Kun says, for the third time.

“Yes?” He’s being a dick, which is better than crying. He looks over to the wet redness around Kun’s eyes.

Kun says, “Nothing.” Then he says, “Jorge’s pissed.”

Lio presses his lips together.

“I’m—“ Kun starts, then goes quiet. He makes a noncommittal noise, like Lio didn’t see him crying in the locker room. “I’m missing the team meeting,” he finishes lamely.

“They know you’re on Lio duty,” Lio says. He means to be blunt, not cruel, but Kun’s eyes harden.

“I don’t want to be in the fucking team meeting,” Kun says.

Lio looks away, face burning. The knot in his gut writhes like it’s alive, doesn’t stop when Kun wraps his arms around Lio’s neck and crowds him against the wall.

“This sucks,” Kun whispers. Lio chokes out a laugh into the blessed blackness of his shoulder.

Muted Russian filters in from down the hallway. Kun holds Lio tighter when he tenses, shushes him like a child. The voices fade away.

Lio becomes aware of his heartbeat, bloody and unending in his ears.

“It’s not over until it’s over,” Kun says.

Lio says, “I don’t want to be here.”

Kun takes Lio by the hand and leads him away, eyes to the front, like if he looked back Lio would disappear.

**Author's Note:**

> @LIO THIS SHIT AINT HEALTHY GO HOME
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/anahaedra), [title](http://objectsource.tumblr.com/post/121666848307)


End file.
